The dilemma (although perhaps the editors don't see it as one) faced in
Asimov's March issue is aptly summarized by Norman Spinrad in his
always intriguing On Books column. In discussing "The Pulp Tradition," Spinrad
notes that the so-called classic SF stories collected by Gardner Dozois in The Good Old Stuff are:

"Like one's first experience of sex, one's early adolescent encounter with
the wonders of science fiction is a uniquely profound one, the profundity of
which is independent of the artistic level of the performance... Re-reading most of
these stories now was for the most part a saddening experience. They just do not
stand the test of time and maturity, speculative fiction's and my own."

So what's a leading science fiction magazine supposed to do? Continue to print
crude pulp stories to attract sufficient numbers of unsophisticated readers as paid
subscribers under the assumption they will eventually grow into the more challenging
stuff and, consequently, allow magazines such as Asimov's to continue
publishing -- both the good and the bad? Or, take the high road and publish only
the, if not literary, then at least intellectually mature fiction that perhaps builds
on the pulp tradition while transcending its juvenile world view? The answer may,
unfortunately, be illustrated by the fate of the late lamented Crank!,
whose commendable efforts to resist the mainstream perhaps in part explains its demise.

On the other hand, maybe editor Gardener Dozois, who is widely admired and praised
for a more inclusive definition of science fiction that graces the pages of
Asimov's and the many anthologies he edits, believes that the Pulp
Tradition can continue to be honored, despite its limitations.

Of course, that's a bit like saying your record collection can include Kenny G. alongside John Coltrane.

All of which is preface to my problem with Asimov's lead story of "Diana by Starlight"
by R. Garcia y Robertson, which features all the essential elements Spinrad ascribes to the form:

"The 'Pulp Tradition' and 'Space Adventure' are generally recognized as... a set of
commercial constraints and not a set of literary values. A heroic figure with whom
the unsophisticated reader can psychologically identify. Evil antagonists for the hero to
overcome. Exotic settings. A plot-line heavy on physical confrontation and fight
scenes. A climax resolved through combat of one form or another."

Spinrad leaves out one particularly annoying characteristic: a sexist attitude in which
women -- even a strong female protagonist such as the one in Robertson's story -- are
essentially the subject of jejune masturbatory visions of pimply-faced boys whose eye
glasses are held together by masking tape.

The illustration for this story warns us immediately of the terrain ahead. A space babe
clad in a skin tight costume that accentuates her breasts and buttocks with a phallic
probe on the verge of penetration from behind. I can't blame Robertson for this, as
the costume doesn't look at all like the one he describes for his character (the front
cover at least gets Diana's uniform right, although why the illustrator has her
gesturing as if asking for help towards the air vehicles in pursuit of her doesn't make
sense to me). What I can blame Robertson for, though, is featuring a female of remarkable
strength and courage (it helps to be the 30th clone in a line of incarnations that have
mastered various high-level athletic skills -- such as precision flying, acrobatics, and
martial arts -- that kick in whenever needed to get her out of a tight spot) who
nonetheless "desperately needed someone to care for her."

That someone being a semi-human Neanderthal "surface barbarian" bred to populate an
"Outback" planet where Peace Corps emissary Lady Diana has been sent to mediate a
dispute. The pair are by circumstance thrown together, hunted by the treacherous
Baron Guy D'Montjoy, an "offworlder" who hopes to frame the assassination of Diana
on the surface dwellers as an excuse to break the existing accords and provide an
opportunity to more fully exploit the planet's resources.

Of course this barbarian has all the noble savage looks (heavily muscled, broad
chest and probably other proportionately large appendages) bound to make him
attractive to a crack lady diplomat, and, guess what, there's even some intelligence
to be uncovered beneath his heavy brow. So it's no wonder our girl falls for this
guy. Even if it's right after she's finished vomiting, a condition caused by a
slight concussion suffered in a clash with unfriendly surface tribesmen. And the
fact that in this life, Diana is a virgin (though she has memories of the sex lives
of her previous cloned counterparts). And that the barbarian is such a good fellow
to want to have intercourse with her even though he finds her ugly ("but in the
dark, that is not so bad.") This rape fantasy then not unexpectedly concludes:

"Clinging to his broad chest, she stared up at the stars she had come from,
enjoying the powerful way he heaved inside her. Her first man in this
lifetime. Who could have guessed? Certainly not her. Afterward, she lay
secure and happy, listening to his deep breathing. He was right. She did
feel better. Immensely so. And tomorrow she would tackle the woes of this misbegotten world."

At this point, it's the reader who has to vomit.

You have to wonder who reads this stuff nowadays. After all, back in Edgar
Rice Burroughs' day there wasn't any Internet porn or late night adult
cable. Besides, forget the underlying sexual content -- isn't formulaic fiction boring?

Obviously not, as a visit to any bookstore's Romance section or the marquee of your
local cinema megaplex will attest to. For whatever reasons (and this is an ongoing
discussion in SF as well as larger literary and cultural circles that you've probably
heard before, so we needn't get into it here), the stuff sells.

Some would argue what's the harm with that? What's wrong with pure entertainment? And,
to be fair, Robertson is very good within the limitations of what he sets out to
do. There is some two-dimensional characterization, the action is fast-paced, if
sometimes silly (in free flight, Diana maintains a tight grip on the safety belt of her
ejector seat so she can reach out far enough to grab the surface barbarian from
falling), and there is an unfolding, if predictable, plot. He's also good at writing
badly ("Having his bath-cum-blow-job cut short by an off-planet diplomat and an outraged
Neanderthal had to be a shock.") At times I wasn't sure if this was supposed to a joke,
or just adherence to the formula.

So if you're into this kind of stuff, I suppose this story is as good any other
(which I guess is the whole point). But contrast "Diana by Starlight" with the story
that immediately follows, Stephen Baxter's "Spindrift": an intentionally marooned Soviet
cosmonaut whose unacknowledged death on the Moon serves as a metaphor both for humanity's
unawareness of the greater meaning of the cosmos and the relative worth of individual
sacrifice over the long term. Now this is more like what SF can potentially achieve as
a literary form. And to counteract Robertson's sexism, two other stories feature strong
women (even if one is an android) that are believably characterized in dealing with
larger issues of the human condition. In Miriam Landau's "Allies," a human woman must
prove her worthiness to the asexual race of Kailas by completing a rock climb (though
I suspect you might have to be a rock climber yourself to really get into this
story). Much more successful, I think, is Esther M. Friesner's "Chanoyu," which
represents a significant contribution to the tradition of Mary Shelley, C.L. Moore,
and Isaac Asimov himself in a story about the misuse of artificial life by its
creators. Freisner presents a clever blend of notions that contrast strict
traditions of proper cultural behavior with a failure to see the moral implications
of technical accomplishments in improving human fertility.

Finally, two other works are grounded in the same Golden Age traditions of
Robertson's space opera, but manage to extend the form a bit rather than merely
imitate. In "Alien," Rick Shelley provides yet another take on a "First Contact"
story. It's a nice variation, although I think he plays unfairly by dropping
misleading comments that, while they serve to make the ending more of a surprise,
come at the expense of narrative logic. "Gallo" by Mark W. Tiedemann provides a
contemporary spin on the atomic bomb mythos understandably popular in the 50s and
60s -- something that if the old Twilight Zone were still around would have made for a good episode.

So I think the March issue is worth buying. You just have to be willing to take the bad with the good.

David Soyka is a former journalist and college teacher who writes the occasional short story and
freelance article. He makes a living writing corporate marketing communications, which is a kind of
fiction without the art.